Wrong Turn
by Tara Laurel
Summary: One wrong turn. That was it. One wrong turn and Hamish and Helen Watson were dead...One wrong turn and John Watson stumbled upon a scene he had never imagined. And on a stranger that would change his life. Teenlock.
1. Prologue

**TITLE:** Wrong Turn

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter One/Prologue

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **Hey look! My first TEENLOCK story! Hooray! I love kid and teenlock. We'll see how I do!

**Chapter One: Prologue**

One wrong turn.

That was it.

One wrong turn and Hamish and Helen Watson were dead.

That was it.

One stupid wrong left turn down a stupid wrong road where a stupid drunk driver decided to plow right into the parents.

Helen Watson was DOA. Died upon impact.

Hamish bled out in the ambulance.

And John Watson, who had been in the back seat, walked away alive.

The teenager suffered a shard of glass through a broken shoulder and a banged up knee that gave him a noticeable limp. He had refused the crutches. He didn't deserve them. Didn't want them. Because every time he accidentally put pressure on the wrong leg, the pain was a punishment. His penance.

That stupid wrong turn.

The funeral was small and brief and John was perfectly okay with that. The selfish part of him didn't want to share his grief with all those strangers. The guilty part of him didn't want them to see him. To look at him.

Pity. Blame. It didn't matter. He hated them both, even if he knew he deserved one of them.

Harriet Watson stood at John's side when the lines started. Family members and strangers alike solemnly made their slow way forward to shake the newly made orphans' hands. A few even risked a hug. Harry accepted the embraces warmly. John simply stiffened.

That night, after stoically facing down the day, Harry locked herself in her bedroom. John could hear the screaming sobs from across the house, where he had hidden himself away in the bathroom.

John didn't cry though.

John Watson hadn't shed a single tear since the accident.

Instead, he merely glared at his own reflection, loathing what he was seeing.


	2. First Impressions

**TITLE:** Wrong Turn

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Two/First Impressions

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **Wow. Your comments had me grinning like the Grinch when his heart grew! You are all wonderful human beings. Just as a warning, this isn't going to be johnlock. I have ABSOLUTELY NOTHING against it, seriously, and there are some fantastic pieces out there of teen johnlock. That's not the purpose of this story. (trust me, there is a plot...somewhere) I just think there is something beautiful about their friendship in and of itself. But, if you want, it's pretty johnlock if you squint. Maybe after the end of the story you can imagine them both skipping off holding hands into the sunset. If they both survive the story...mwhahahahahahahahahaha *starts coughing*

**Chapter Two: First Impressions**

One wrong turn.

That was it.

One wrong turn and John Hamish Watson stumbled upon a scene he had never imagined. On his sister. And on a stranger that would change his life.

It was his second day at a new school and John was miserable. Transferring in his final year of secondary wasn't exactly something he was pleased about.

But when his great aunt had insisted on having the two teenagers move to London so that she could keep an eye on them, and when Harry had perked up at the thought of leaving the empty, too empty, house behind, he didn't hesitate to agree.

John and Harry's great aunt was elderly, elderly and rich.

Her house made their old home look like a shed.

She had dementia, and two very possessive sons, and therefore was not allowed to take in the two strays as their guardian. The brothers even refused to let the orphan ruffians stay under their mother's roof until they found a suitable place of their own. The sons may have had control of their mother's house, but the woman still had enough sense and money to practically demand that John and Harry allow her to help pay for them to go school.

A posh school.

John hated it.

Harry loved it.

So John said yes.

John had turned eighteen over the summer, two weeks before their parents' death. By the time he was starting his last year of secondary school, John had won legal custody over his sixteen year old sister, found the cheapest flat he possibly could in London, and found a job. He suspected his aunt had had something to do with the low rate of rent he received and couldn't help but feel grateful to the woman he used to despise receiving Christmas jumpers from. She claimed that it was only fair as her boys had given her no grandchildren and she needed someone to spoil. She paid for their books and school uniforms and even made them model the outfits for her.

Harry was delighted to drown in the attention.

John wanted to strangle himself with his own tie.

But he didn't yet.

And that was why, on only his second day of the new school year, at the new school, John accidentally turned left down the wrong hallway and out the wrong door in search of his chemistry class.

He wasn't exactly looking forward to the course. He did love science, but that meant biology, not equations and math.

What he saw, though, as he turned the corner, put all thoughts of chemical compounds and formulas from his mind.

His sister was standing with her back to him, her arm locked tightly in a stranger's grip. She was spitting swears at him, but the boy remained calm and kept his hold.

"I saw you with it," Harry argued.

"I believe I have no idea what you are talking about," the pale boy with dark curls replied readily.

"You're a fucking bloody liar, you are."

John paused, his lips dropping apart as if they had been sewn together and someone just cut them open. He had never heard his sister use such language before. In fact, he had never seen her like this at all. Something was different.

Something was wrong.

"Let her go," John announced his presence icily.

The boy lazily glanced over at John, apparently apathetic to the warning in his voice or the rugby muscles John flexed. With a dramatic bow of his head, the lanky teenager released Harry.

"I was merely informing your sister of the medical dangers of mixing drugs with her newly acquired alcoholism."

John wasn't even granted a moment to question how the boy not much younger than him spoke like a grown man, or wonder at the odd cadence of the base voice. His mind was too preoccupied turning over the words he had spoken.

_Sister. Drugs. Alcoholism._

John's brain staggered.

"What?"

It was quite honestly not his most clever retort, but it seemed that it was all his mind was going to allow him to muster.

"I do hate repeating myself," the boy rolled his piercing eyes, "but I can see if I don't explain you will take it upon yourself to assume me a threat to your sister. You will then likely punch me in the face and we would be forced into a physical altercation whereas I would win. The entire thing, though, would be tedious and I did just get this shirt. I would rather not have it stained with each of our blood."

John blinked. And then again.

"Allow me to help you understand," he continued with a sigh that sounded more like a cloud being expelled from his lungs. "Harriet approached me for drugs, specifically, cocaine. I declined her request."

"Drugs?" John swallowed when his voice finally decided it would work again. "_Drugs?_"

It seemed to be all he could say though.

He whirled on his sister.

"John, seriously," Harry crossed her arms like a tight bow over her puffed chest. "You can't believe this wanker. He grabbed me. You saw."

"What you saw," the boy cleared his throat, "was Harriet here poorly attempting to steal my stash."

"Your – _stash_?" John rounded on the boy, to which the stranger spared a glance around and shushed the older teenager.

"Is there something wrong with your brain?" The apparent drug addict/possible dealer challenged him. "You seem to be capable of only repeating words that I have said in the form of a question. Judging by your grades, I doubt it. Then it's not a mental deficiency. So, shock then. Well, you two are from a small town. Drugs most likely never were much of a topic of discussion at the dinner table. That, and you clearly didn't know about your sister's drinking habits. You weren't even suspicious. You're also heading the wrong way to your class. Again, not _that _incompetent. You charged in ready to protect your sister. Sure, you might like the adrenaline from the fight, but it's more than that. You _care. _You're not the type to just ignore these types of problems. _So_, then, distracted. Distracted going to class, just as you have been with Harry's drinking. Distracted a lot, lately. Didn't even notice the three boys come up behind you."

John staggered and then turned quickly, a strong hand seizing his collar before he could even raise his fists.


	3. A Study in Beekeeping

**TITLE:** Wrong Turn

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Three/A Study in Beekeeping

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **Surprise, surprise. Bullies. I feel very cliche right now. But, oh well. My story. *sticks tongue out*

**Chapter Three: A Study in Beekeeping**

John staggered and then turned quickly, a strong hand seizing his collar before he could even raise his fists.

"Excuse us, we got business with the freak." A red moppy haired boy with a sharp uniform and an even sharper accent sliced the words off his tongue.

John was none too kindly shoved aside and promptly ignored as the trio of teenagers descended upon the younger student. Harry attempted to subtly slink away, but the apparent leader of the hungry pack caught her wrist.

"Wait. Stay awhile. You must be new." He smiled and it reminded John of a serpent. "I don't know you, and I know all the pretty girls here."

"Well, you _aren't _going to know me," Harry spat.

"I like a challenge," the posh caveman grunted.

"And I'm sure she likes boys with far less cliché lines," the dark haired boy rolled his eyes. "Actually, I don't think she likes _boys _at all."

Harry stiffened, studiously avoiding her brother's sudden gaze that had snapped to attention at the remark.

"Did I say you could speak, Holmes?" The ringleader rounded on him.

"I don't know, did you?" Holmes shrugged. "If your brain is too small to even remember what you did or didn't say, I do worry for you."

"I'd be worried about yourself right now, Holmes," the brainless side of beef retorted.

"What is it this time?" Holmes sighed. "Father hit you too hard last night?"

"What'd you say?" The mammoth plucked Holmes up by his uniform collar and slammed him against the wall.

"Now you can't remember what _I _said," Holmes managed to shake his head in mock pity, despite his current position.

"Shut up! I told you to have my paper done by yesterday," he growled.

"And I told you there was no possible way I could write it that would believably make myself sound as stupid as you."

"You -"

"Besides, you know my conditions. I only do others' work that I find interesting, and only for the right price."

Harry had managed to slip by the goons and retreat to her brother's side. John should have grabbed her right then and turned tail. Ran away. He should have never made that wrong turn.

But it was three against one. No matter who this strange kid was, that wasn't fair.

Not to mention how John's knuckles were itching for a fight. He wanted the adrenaline. The excitement.

And the pain.

So, when John whispered for Harry to run and then proceeded to step forward, it probably wasn't the most intelligent decision he had ever made. But it was his decision. He wasn't turning around, or making any wrong turns for that matter. He was barreling straight forward.

Right into the ringleader's side.

John's old rugby skills flared to life happily after so long in disuse. He completed his tackle, leading with his good shoulder and vaguely noticing Holmes sliding suddenly to the ground now that the hold on his collar was broken. The other two goons were on him after only a moment of surprised hesitation. One managed to grip his left shoulder and John howled, seeing shattered glass and blood, _so much blood_.

There was a fist against his lip and then another crashing into his stomach.

His leg gave out at that and he toppled forward, knees hitting the concrete.

"Let him go."

John glanced up through blurry eyes at the pale stranger, who seemed to be holding something in his closed fist.

"Well, now, who's savin' who, here?" The leader laughed.

"I never needed _saving_," Holmes spat the words with so much distaste one would think they were acidic on his tongue.

John managed to roll his eyes.

"Are you two friends?" The belligerent boy cackled.

"I don't have friends," the pair answered in unison, Holmes disdainfully, John defiantly.

"Right match you are," he chuckled. "You two poofs together?"

"I don't even know him," John hissed.

"Well, you will," he answered balefully. "Come on, lads. I say we lock these two lovebirds in the caretaker's closet. Give 'em some time to get to know each other properly."

"Please," Holmes scoffed. "You're going to lock us in a closet. How juvenille."

John was glaring at the boy in what he hoped to be a look of _"shut the bloody hell up you moron". _He liked a fight. He even liked the pain. But he didn't exactly fancy being put in hospital. Not when he'd have to pay the bill.

"'Course that's after we beat your faces in."

"Is it now?" Holmes challenged, eyes flicking for a breath of a moment to meet John's.

Before John could nod his understanding, Holmes threw the contents of his fist into the ringleader's eyes. The boy hollered and began hastily slapping at his own face. Seizing the distraction, John shot his good leg out underneath the two detaining him at the same time he shot his elbows sharply backwards. The pair collapsed in a tangled and grunting heap.

John was stunned speechless when the arrogant and antagonistic stranger reached out a helpful hand. John hesitated only a beat before taking it and allowing the boy to haul him upright. Holmes threw his bag over his shoulder and John's arm over the other.

"Come along, John!"

The two sprinted down the side of the building and then inside. They didn't stop until they were both leaning against the wall of the boy's washroom.

"_That _was the most ridiculous thing, I have ever done," John half panted, half laughed. "What did you throw at him?"

"A week of a now wasted experiment," Holmes grumbled, flipping a small contained over in his hand.

"What?" John furrowed his eyebrow.

"I _was _studying bee culture," Holmes sighed spectacularly.

"You threw a _bee _at him?" John gaped, shocked, and maybe, no, definitely not, impressed, nor amused.

"Not just any bee, John," he rolled his eyes. "The Queen. I was examining the segregation of the Queen. Keeping her apart from her hive."

"You have a hive?" John asked, partly incredulous, partly curious.

"Yes," he answered, as if it were an obvious answer and all teenage boys did. "How else am I to conduct a controlled experiment?"

"Wait," John chuckled. "You keep _bee _in your _bag_?"

"Not anymore," he pouted. "She was perfectly safe. As was I. I kept her close to monitor her behavior."

"So you just happened to have a bee cage or whatever you use in your bag?"

"Well, I wasn't going to put her in my pocket."

"Anything else living in there?" John eyed the backpack suspiciously.

"Just a poisonous spider and some deadly mold."

John blanched.

"A joke," Holmes frowned. "Isn't that what people do? Joke? Though the bit about the mold is true. Keep your hands out of the front pocket."


	4. Simple Deductions

**TITLE:** Wrong Turn

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Four/Simple Deductions

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **I have absolutely nothing interesting to say..except...REVIEW! ...please?

**Chapter Four: Simple Deductions**

"Well," John chuckled. "I'm glad no one saw that."

"Hmm?" Holmes disinterestedly barely answered.

"Us, running into the loo together, people might talk."

"People do little else," Holmes replied with what John swore was a shadow of a genuine smile.

"How – how did you know all that? That stuff about me, and my sister? How'd you even know she's my sister, or our names?"

"All simple deductions really," Holmes sighed. "When your sister approached me, I noticed her name written on one of her books. The alcohol was easy enough to smell on her breath. I knew it had become a habit, and recently, by the zipper of her bag. And her eyes. Then there was you. Your first three words were enough to tell me your identity. Another upstanding student citizen might have asked what was going on. You immediately demanded that I let her go, in a voice I _know _personally only older siblings possess. There have been exactly two new students this year, besides the first years, obviously. So, siblings and new."

John's eyes moved rapidly, as if trying to catch and read the words as they escaped the boy's mouth.

"What about my grades? And chemistry class?" John pressed curiously.

"You were carrying your chemistry book, while everything else was kept in your bag. Judging by the direction you were coming from, you couldn't have just previously been in chemistry. So you had it out before you even got to the class. You're prepared and you care about school. The novel sticking out of the front pocket of your bag is only assigned in the advanced literature class, and you have it propped out, ready to read it in your spare time to get ahead. Yet you struggle with chemistry. Not even a two days in and you've already driven your pen at least half a dozen times into the cover of the book out of frustration."

John was pretty sure that, had he glanced in the mirror, he would have looked something similar to a fish washed ashore, mouth flapping and all.

"That – that's fantastic," John finally stammered.

It was Sherlock's turn to be pulled from sea.

"Really? You think so?" Scratch the fish, the kid appeared like a deer caught in headlights, a deer that was trying to hide his expression.

"Of course. It was brilliant."

"That's not what people normally say," Holmes glanced away.

"What do they normally say?" John questioned.

"Piss off."

John laughed at that and couldn't help but notice that the other boy was chuckling as well.

"And then there's how you've been distracted."

John's laughter died on his lips, his entire mouth going dry. He was the fish again. But this time, he was panicking.

"That's not the right word, though, is it?" Holmes continued, oblivious or uncaring to John's sudden discomfort. "It's something bigger. Important. You were blind to your sister's problems. You were prepared for chemistry, and yet went in the wrong direction. You probably got the book out at the end of the last class, when you were too busy being focused on the lesson to think about what has been distracting you. It came back in the halls. There's a smudge of toothpaste in the corner of your mouth and half of your collar is turned up. You haven't even noticed the tearing of your bag. Either there's no one around anymore to catch and fix these mistakes for you, or you've not been paying attention. I'm willing to bet both are the correct answer."

"Stop," John whispered.

"You did just move. Death of a family member then. A parent. Possibly both."

_"Dad! Look out!"_

"A single parent couldn't afford this school, but perhaps a new guardian or benefactor could. They aren't wholly supporting you, though. The writing on your assignment that is peaking out just there from your book tells me that you did it on the train this morning, as it fails to match your other writing along the spine of the book covering. You don't strike me as the type of student to be so careless. So, you couldn't do it last night. Why? Dark circles and subtle scent of take away suggest you've got a job. So, both parents gone."

_"Mom! Mom! Dad, why is Mom -"_

_ "It's alright, son. Calm down. Everything's - going to be – alright."_

"Don't," John swallowed.

"But the dark circles are something more, too, aren't they? No sleep? No, not just no sleep. Nightmares. Of course. You were with your parents when it happened."

_The loud – too loud – crash and tearing of metal against metal. Of screams. Of his own bone breaking. _

"You haven't just been distracted, you've been feeling guilty. Because something you did caused their deaths and now -"

"I said 'shut up'!"

The shove came unexpected to both boys. John's hands had been moving before he even knew it. They connected with the other teen's chest, the chemistry book slamming gracelessly to the ground. Holmes stumbled back, body knocking harshly against the wall.

John was just glad he hadn't punched him.

But he still wanted to.

Except now his arm was screaming, his shoulder quite possible on fire. He reeled back against the opposite wall and groaned. He definitely didn't yelp.

The younger boy's features flashed hurt, then confusion, then back to his cold mask in a matter of seconds. He stepped tentatively toward John, who thrust his uninjured arm out forward.

"Don't – don't touch me," he swallowed. "Just stay away from me."

Without another word, John turned and hurried away. The other would later deny that he watched the older boy go.


	5. Surprise Me

**TITLE:** Wrong Turn

**CHAPTER/TITLE:** Chapter Five/ Surprise Me

**RATING:** T (violence/language)

**A/N: **My new cat hates me. Wait, that's not an author's note. Close enough.

**Chapter Five: Surprise Me**

"I'm sorry, John. I just can't allow it."

John sat across from the rugby coach, a frown so low on his drooping face that it was practically falling off his chin. He had gone in search of the man later that day after school, the third time since he head been transferred.

"Please," John was certainly not begging.

"We've already discussed this," the man with the chiseled face, yet rounded body sighed. "I've read your medical file. You're still supposed to be in physical therapy, which you haven't been going to."

"I can't afford it." John wasn't exactly lying. They'd used up all the money from the accident on hospital bills and the first month's rent.

"Well, that I can help you with, if you'd like. Maybe during your lunch or after practices -"

"No, thank you," John shook his hand as he stood.

"Look, John," the coach grunted in a way meant to sound encouraging. "You're bright. Don't waste that. Alright? What happened to you and your parents is terrible. It's unfair. But don't let it beat you down. You have plenty of things to fight right now, to push against, without rugby. Take some time. And don't stop fighting."

John didn't respond as he shouldered his backpack and slunk away. At least this guy was better than his old chain smoking, cursing, and hollering coach. Of course, he'd take that short-tempered, troll of a man. He'd take any coach, if it meant he could play.

He was still sulking when he pushed his way through the school's back doors, and right into the middle of a fight. It actually wasn't even a proper rumble. It was more like four on one.

Because, well, it was.

And, in the middle, curled in on himself and bleeding, was Sherlock Holmes.

Even just the sight of the flash of black curls lit him up with a rage, and guilt. He hadn't been able to scrub the boy's last words from his mind. They had even echoed in his nightmares that evening. And yet, no matter what, John was pretty sure four against one wasn't exactly a fair fight. The same moral compass that had steered him to protect the stranger the first time was now pointing him once more in the same direction.

Well, his coach _had _told him to fight.

Four beefy brained bullies probably wasn't what he had in mind.

Not to mention that John was currently in no shape to tangle with the testosterone filled teenagers. He would probably have just ended up a heap on the ground too.

Maybe they'd accidentally rip open his stitches and bleed to death. That wasn't such a bad thought. Until he remembered Harry.

He had to think, and he had to do it quickly.

"You bloody bastard," John announced his presence as he stomped forward, his limp nowhere to be seen. "You cock."

"What'd the freak do to you, mate?" One of the neanderthals grinned a crooked-tooth smile.

"Wanker talked about my mum," John only half lied. "Was hoping to catch him tomorrow. Mind if I join you?"

"Be my guest," the boy chuckled, his throat sounded like it was gargling thick soup. "The git told my girlfriend I was cheating on her."

"Well, you were," Sherlock mumbled.

"Shut up," John planted a kick to Sherlock's side before the boy could get a decent one in. "You guys mind if I have a little one on one with the wanker alone?" John ground out. "I'll leave him in one piece for you."

"Leave him in ten for all I care," another boy snarled.

"Yeah," the apparent cheater shrugged. "This is gettin' boring anyway. We've got practice. You should think about rugby, mate. Have fun. And Holmes, we'll see you tomorrow."

The boys were still stalking away when John hefted Sherlock up by the collar, dragging him around a corner and then shoving him up against the wall. He glanced over his shoulder once before releasing the battered brunet.

Sherlock's look of genuine surprise and confusion wasn't hidden this time.

"You – you're not going to pummel me?" He inquired with a curious cock of his head, as if studying the other teenager.

"What?" John drew back. "'Course not. Just didn't feel like taking on all four by myself."

Sherlock still appeared skeptical.

"Look, they're right. You are a git. And you did technically talk about my mum. But no one deserves a beating like that."

John paused when Sherlock failed to stop staring at him like he was some grotesque science project. Actually, given the odd bee collection and experiments, he probably would look at a grotesque science experiment with excitement. Not like this.

"What?" John demanded, wondering vaguely if there was something on his face.

"You," Sherlock paused, speaking impossibly slowly compared to his usual cadence, "surprised me. No one's ever done that before."

John didn't quite know what to say to that and promptly changed the subject.

"I thought you said you were a good fighter," he teased, trying to lighten the mood while diverting the attention off of himself.

"I am," Sherlock's chest sprung outward and upward, and if he had had feathers, they probably would have flourished. "If you remember, there were four, and they – they caught me by surprise."

"I thought you said no one surprises you," John quipped, immediately regretting it when that disconcerting look spread over Sherlock's face once more.

"They grabbed me and hit me over the head before I could fight back," Sherlock continued. "Cowards."

"What did they hit you with?" John couldn't help the concern that seeped into his voice.

His dad had been a doctor. John knew all about the dangers of head wounds.

"This."

John glanced down at Sherlock's hands, and his Chemistry book cradled in them. He hadn't even noticed it until then.

"Is that -"

"I was – waiting for you. You like avoiding attention and you take the train home. Naturally, I deduced that you would use this exit."

"You were waiting for _me_?" John squinted.

"I see we are back to parroting," Sherlock sighed. "You left your book after our – meeting – yesterday. I only thought it was logical to return it."

"You – you didn't have to do that," John shook his head.

"I am perfectly aware of what I do and do not have to do. And, actually considering your terrible notes that were tucked inside, I'd say I did. With your problems in Chemistry, you'll need all the help you can get."

"Uh, thanks?"

John wasn't sure if he was actually properly being insulted or not. He was asking that question a lot around Sherlock.

"I took the liberty of adding my own notes in the margins," Sherlock continued. "I think you will find them helpful."

"Thanks," John repeated himself.

"I was merely wasting time in between experiments last night," Sherlock shrugged.

Again, that odd expression crossed Sherlock's face. John wondered if, not only had no one ever surprised him, but maybe no one else had ever showed him kindness either. Complimented him. Thanked him. Been a friend to him.

Was that what John was doing here? Befriending Sherlock Holmes? He had come to the boy's aid twice now. Well, if that was the case, then he was also, in turn, demolishing any social standing he had hoped to gain at the new school. He had been quite the star rugby player at his old school, not to mention a bit of a lady killer when he felt like bragging about it. It was funny, how none of that seemed to matter anymore. He had just been begging – _no, asking_ – for the third time for a spot on the team. What had changed in the last ten minutes? What had caused John to suddenly think of turning in this different direction?

"And – perhaps – talking about your parents was – not good," Sherlock spoke slowly and John wondered if this was the closest the boy had come to apologizing before.

"Yeah," John swallowed, shifting his backpack nervously. "Look, thanks again, for this," he held up the book, "and for not, you know, giving my sister anything yesterday. I should get going. I've got to get to work."

Sherlock stood silently and John almost rolled his eyes. If Sherlock wasn't going to say anything, even goodbye, well then, neither was he.

Instead, John wordlessly turned and shuffled hurriedly away, cursing the limp that slowed him down.


End file.
